Do Not Go Gentle (31 page)

“Aye, that's true, dear, but there's something else equally true—you can't keep going like this. You're barely able to function. I'm scared to death every time you go out that door that I'll get a call that you've collapsed somewhere or gotten into an accident.” Eileen fought back tears of frustration and fear.

Jamie took her hand again. “I know. That's why I stopped driving—I don't trust myself. I can't focus well enough on traffic to drive safely other than short distances. My head just aches so bad and I get so tired that I kind of ‘zone out,' which I know is not safe.”

“Well thank the Lord for having at least that much sense, man.” Eileen reached out with her other hand and placed it softly against Jamie's cheek. “So at least take a break. Rest up some, then continue.”

Jamie shook his head. “I can't. You've heard me say it often enough before—the longer a case goes, the more likely it is that it will never be solved.”

Eileen sighed heavily. “So what then? You push yourself and push yourself until you have a complete breakdown? This could put you in the hospital, Jamie. You have huge, dark bags under your eyes, which I've never seen before. Your skin is pale, and I can see you swaying slightly when you walk across the room, not to mention the falling. You're just one man, Séamus Edward Griffin, and a sick one at that. If the resources Sully is throwing at the case can't find anything to tie the murders to that awful woman, how can you find anything by yourself, especially given your condition?”

Jamie did not respond for several seconds. He just looked out at another cold but sunny day. Finally, he looked back at his wife. “I don't know, but I also know I can't just give up.” He placed a hand on Eileen's leg and patted it gently. “I know you're right, love. I've just
got
to find some way to keep doing what I can.”

“Fair enough,” Eileen replied. “I'm getting ready to go deliver the last of the cookies and candy. Do you want to come along or do you want to stay here?”

Jamie considered for a moment, and then said, “I'll stay here. I want to think about where I'm at and what we can do.”

“Okay,” Eileen said. “I'll be back in about an hour and I'll have my cell phone on if you need anything.”

“Yes, mother,” Jamie replied teasingly.

Eileen rolled her eyes and left the room. “Vexing. Vexing, vexing man.”

Eileen bustled about in the kitchen for a while, then checked back on Jamie as she got her coat and left. Finn MacCool followed her around, hoping in vain that maybe she would take him for a ride. When that didn't happen, he wandered back to sit by his master.

Jamie turned on the TV and watched the first show that came onscreen. He sat for a while, scratching behind Finn's ears and drinking his coffee. His mind raced through his situation, not the TV drama.
I'm getting nowhere fast.
Eileen's right
—
I can't keep going this way, but I can't stop either.

Then, the TV show finally caught his attention. Jamie sat up abruptly, causing Finn to jerk his head away from Jamie's lap. “That's it,” Jamie exclaimed. The dog now perked his ears and stood, looking around guardedly. Jamie laughed and patted him. “Don't worry, Finn. I just thought of a way that I can keep things going without running myself completely into the ground.” The dog chuffed indignantly, and then curled back up beside Jamie.
Now I just gotta convince everyone.

Alvise Aloysius Lombardi, better known as “Louie” to his associates and law enforcement officials, looked out at the cold December day and cursed the weather in his gravelly, perpetually hoarse voice, “
Dannato
tempo.
” Louie was a huge slab of a man—six-feet-four and two hundred fifty pounds. Most of his weight was muscle, but it was slowly turning to fat, especially the twenty or so pounds he'd put on since he'd “retired.” He had huge, scarred hands. Louie had been able to palm a basketball at age ten. He was hobbling around his townhome using an Italian, leather, golf-handle cane. Two years ago, Louie had to have both knees replaced and needed the cane to walk, a slow, limping shuffle that was now his normal pace. The cold weather was hell on all of his joints, especially his knees.

Although only 48, Louie had “retired” from his career due to the injuries he sustained to his knees. Louie's career had been as an enforcer in the Boston Mafia. He had been big since he was a child, so Louie's activities had always tended to be physical. He grew up poor and used family connections in the mob to obtain a low-level place within the family. Unlike some, Louie knew his place and enjoyed his activities. Being extremely religious, Louie had always gone to confession after any acts that the Holy Mother Church frowned upon. Louie had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had been standing on an East Boston street, leaning down at a street side café to explain the facts of life to one of his boss' “problem clients.” The much smaller man, cowering at the table, had been paying close attention to Louie's words and emphatic gestures. When his eyes widened, he tumbled out of his chair. Louie spun and tried to dodge, grabbing for the .357 magnum he always carried in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Before he could draw however, automatic gunfire raked across his knees.

Two knee replacements and an extremely painful year of physical therapy had gotten Louie to the point where he could at least walk under his own power, albeit with a severe limp and use of a cane. It had been the end of Louie's active career. His boss had been good to him, though—the man himself had come to visit Louie after the knee operations. His boss was a small man, very dapper in his custom tailored suits, and much older, nearly sixty-five, with thinning, salt-and-pepper hair and a trimmed mustache, but still active and powerful. Louie had been assured that he would have a place on the payroll and would only be asked to do light duties when his health permitted.

Louie's recovery had been mental as much as physical. An extremely active man all his life, Louie now had to face a life where he could not be active—where activity in fact, caused him pain. He could, and did, work through a great deal of pain, but winters were the worst. Louie often thought about moving to a warmer climate, but his family, both biological and sociological, were all in the Boston area. On those occasions when his job required him to travel to Florida, Texas, Arizona, California, and the like, he appreciated the warm climate, but knew he would never be comfortable living in it.

So Louie Lombardi still lived in the modest townhouse he purchased before his “accident” as he referred to it. He bought it near his family's parish, Saint Leonard of Port Maurice Church in the Boston North End neighborhood often called “Little Italy.” Louie attended daily mass at Saint Leonard's. Even though his activities did not require as much use of the confessional as before his accident, Louie still went to confession once each week. He was preparing to make his painful pilgrimage the few blocks to Saint Leonard's. He fed his Alexandrine parakeets, Willy and Nilly. The birds gave Louie something to look after and care for. The brightly colored birds also provided Louie with entertainment. They loved to fly about the townhouse, playing with various toys he bought them, and uttering their very loud cries. “Tsh, tsh,
poco
ragazza
.” Louie kept the birds in their cage when he went out, which often led to loud scolding. If the noise got to be too much, he would cover their cage with a cloth to calm them.

The phone rang as Louie was putting on his heavy winter coat. He limped to the phone by his couch and answered it. “
Pronto
.”

“Louie,” came a familiar voice. “How are you doing these days?”

Louie laughed, a guttural sound like a small rockslide. “Well, if it ain't the Mick Dick? How you doin'?”

“Not bad. Not bad. I have a request of you, my friend.”

“Let me hear it, and I'll tell you if I can grant it.”

“I'd like you to come to a meeting tomorrow.”

Louie frowned, turning his face into an illustration of a child's book where trolls figured prominently. “A meeting. What
kind
of meeting?” Louie listened for the next five minutes to the man's explanation.

“So will you come?”

Louie thought for a moment. “It will cost you, you know.”

“I know—our usual arrangement, but I also have a business proposition for you.”

“A business proposition?
Si
. I will attend this meeting.” Louie wrote down the time and place. “
Ciao
.”

“Goodbye, Louie.”

Louie looked down at the paper with the meeting information and shrugged. While the family provided Louie with a small income, he supplemented it from time to time by working as a confidential informant. His only stipulation was that he would not provide information on family activities—other families or rivals, but not
his
family. Then he turned to his parakeets and said, “The Mick offers me some money to come talk, I would be a fool not to take his money, eh,
ragazza
?” Willy and Nilly squawked their agreement. Louis Lombardi finished bundling up for the cold weather, slowly made his way to the elevator, and then trudged outside into the frigid day to Saint Leonard's.

* * * *

Daphné Lopes looked at her twin sister, Darcelle, and made a rude noise. “
Catchôrr'
-
fémia
. Did you take my purple blouse?”

Darcelle shook her head and pointed to her outfit—a plain navy blue button-up blouse and blue jeans. “What kind of question is that,
minína
? Do I look like I'd steal your purple girly blouse? Call me ‘dog' again and you'll wish you'd stayed in bed today.”

The young women stared at each other across the living room of their tiny apartment. They were twenty-five years old, five-feet-ten inches tall, dark skinned, with large brown eyes, short black hair, and exotic looks that grabbed men's attentions. After a few seconds, they both backed down and looked away. While they talked fiercely to each other, they got along well.

Daphné and Darcelle were of Cape Verdean descent, living near, but not with, their large family in Uphams Corners, the largest concentration of Cape Verdeans in Boston. While they had been born and raised in the U.S., both women would lapse into Cape Verdean Creole, the language of the islands located about 600 kilometers off the coast of Senegal in western Africa. The Portuguese had colonized the group of ten islands, which is still the official language of the country. Their location had made them an important stop in the Atlantic slave trade, as well as for pirates, privateers, and even Charles Darwin's famous expedition. Hard times after the decline of the slave trade had led to a large diaspora resulting in more Cape Verdeans living abroad than in their native country.

Daphné turned and stalked out of the room in a huff. Darcelle rolled her eyes and got up from the couch where she had been reading the latest issue of Popular Mechanics. Darcelle, like her sister, did not fit into traditional female stereotypes. They both worked as independent contractors—Darcelle as a freelance mechanic, troubleshooter, and “Jane Fixit,” while Daphné was a computer and electronics expert. Darcelle had a more difficult time than her sister at making a living as a contractor. She only lasted a week when she tried working at an automotive center—Darcelle did not take orders well. “Are you sure you didn't overlook the
fêia
blouse in the dirty clothes?”

“Yes, I'm sure,” replied Daphné. “I did laundry after our San Da class the other night, Dar.” The girls were both skilled practitioners of Shaolin Kung Fu. They were currently taking a class in San Da self-defense, also known as Chinese kickboxing.

“Yeah, but I'm pretty sure you wore it to target shooting the next night, Daph.” Darcelle joined her sister in the hunt for the purple blouse. In addition to their skills as martial artists, the twins were accomplished with firearms. They were both licensed for conceal-carry, and they both favored Kimber pistols. Darcelle used a black 1911 Custom Target II, while Daphné carried a stainless TLE/RL II, a stainless steel version of the duty pistol carried by the LAPD SWAT. While neither one of them had ever had reason to fire their weapons anywhere except at the Boston Gun Club in Dorchester, they rarely went out on a job without carrying them.

“Shit.” Daphné swore. “You're right—here it is, with the jeans I wore that night. I could have
sworn
it was clean.”

Darcelle held up her hand to her ear. “What's that? I didn't quite catch that apology.”

Daphné threw the shirt at her sister. “Yeah, well it's
your
turn to do laundry, so get my blouse clean for tonight.”

The telephone interrupted the bickering. Both women carried cell phones, but they also had a landline that they kept for clients, acquaintances, and miscellaneous business needs. They stepped to look at the caller ID box, and then looked at each other questioningly at the name displayed. Daphné, being the elder sister—by four and a half minutes, as she liked to remind Darcelle—answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Is this Daphné or Darcelle?”

“Daphné,” she replied. “That's right—Mom said you might call. How can we help you, sir?”

“Sir?” the man on the other end of the line chuckled. “I can remember when you two used to ask to play with my gun. Now you carry your own guns.”

“Indeed. What's up, Uncle?”

“Well, let me explain.” Daphné switched the phone to speaker and the twins listened for the next several minutes.

“Interesting,” Darcelle said when their “uncle” was finished. He was a close family friend, not a blood relative. “Of course we'll come to your meeting. When is it?”

“Tomorrow at noon.”

“Where?”

“We're going to meet at the Blackthorn Pub. Do you girls have any idea where that is?”

“Be nice, uncle, or you'll regret it,” Daphné warned.

“Yeah, it's at Broadway and Dorchester Street in South Boston. Why we going all the way up there? Dorchester bars aren't good enough for you?”

“Watch your tongue, young lady. I know many more embarrassing stories about you than vice versa. We're meeting someone from the North End, so I chose a spot in between.”

“Fine. You're the one with the furthest to go, so I guess we can't bitch too much.”

“Like it would do you any good. Okay, ladies, see you then.”

“Bye.”

The twins looked at each other after Daphné disconnected the phone. “Hmmm. Whatcha think
that's
all about?”

“Dunno,” Darcelle replied. “He was playing his cards pretty close to the chest.”

“Umm-hmmm. Well, only one way to find out.”

“Yeah—but we're making
him
buy the drinks.”

“You got that right, sis. Now, get busy on the laundry.”

* * * *

Saturday saw a moderation of the winter temperature—the high was a whopping 32 degrees, a dozen degrees warmer than the previous day. Plus, the sun shone brightly and the wind had died down, so Louie walked the three long blocks to the MBTA bus station nearest his townhouse, then another half dozen or so blocks from the bus stop closest to the Blackthorn Pub. He could have taken a taxi, but when the weather was decent, Louie walked as much as possible. His physical therapist had told him to “use it or lose it.” Nonetheless, by the time Louie had painfully limped to the pub, he was in a foul mood.
This cornuto Mick had better have a damned good “business proposition” after I walked all this way.

Louie entered the pub and looked around. After several seconds trying to adjust his eyes to the dim interior of the bar, Louie heard someone call his name. He turned and saw Jamie Griffin waving to him from a table near the back. As Louie stumped to the table, he could see that Jamie was not alone—two gorgeous young women sat with him. When he reached the booth, Louie shook his head. “If that wife of yours ever finds out you're two-timing her with two broads, it'll be the end of the line for you, Mick.”

As they seated themselves, Louie across from Jamie and the women across from each other, Jamie smiled. “Louie Lombardi, I'd like you to meet two young ladies whom I've had the privilege to know since they walked around in diapers.”

“Uncle.” they both protested at once.